


Acrylic

by yeaka



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies), Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Anal Sex, Established Relationship, Ficlet, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Self-Lubrication
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-07
Updated: 2015-09-07
Packaged: 2018-04-19 11:48:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4745213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Only for Jim would Spock finger-paint.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Acrylic

**Author's Note:**

  * For [plyushka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/plyushka/gifts).



> A/N: Fill for superplyushka’s “K/S. Maybe involving finger painting?” request on [my tumblr](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Star Trek or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

He takes his seat before the canvas, perched neatly on his knees with his face hardened for it. His captain—his _master_ for tonight—settles down behind him. Jim’s arms wrap around his sides, fingers curling in the blue hem of his uniform, and his shirt’s slowly stripped away. He lifts his arms for it but otherwise remains limp and allows Jim to undress him, the black shirt beneath following. Jim’s quarters are warm enough—specifically raised for Spock’s Vulcan blood—that it isn’t uncomfortable. Not physically. Jim tosses the fabric aside and casually remarks, “It’s so you won’t get a mess on them.”

Spock sucks in a breath and nods to show his understanding. And his acceptance. The paints, sitting in little plastic bowls along the top of the canvas, are a daunting thing. All of it feels _messy_. But Jim seems to read his mind and comments with thinly veiled amusement, “That’s what makes it a punishment, Commander. If you’d been a good boy, you’d have a brush.” Jim shifts closer, his hand landing on Spock’s shoulder to trail lightly down his spine. Melodramatic, Jim sighs, “But you questioned my orders on my bridge, and now you’ll have to use your hands like the dirty thing you are.” Another shiver threatens to wrack Spock’s body. 

He moves, almost by sheer force of will. He understands art on an intellectual level, but he has no desire to explore it further. In truth, he worries it’ll provoke the emotions he tries to keep at bay. He dips his fingers first into the cup of black, scooping up a wad of paint to drag across the canvas, and then he brings white to follow, spreading it for grey. 

It doesn’t matter what he paints, he thinks, though the usual want to achieve is still inside him. He makes a tilted oval shape, all too aware of Jim’s eyes on the fluid motion of his fingers. It’s a little too _sensitive_ , this method, dragging his finger pads so wantonly through the slicked medium. It isn’t something he’d ever do but for want of _Jim_.

Jim seems to get a strange satisfaction out of it. Perhaps out of seeing him put to tactile use, or perhaps from debauching him so—humans are curious creatures that way. Jim draws closer over the course of Spock’s degradation, until Jim is nearly flattened into his skin, draped right along his back. In his ear, Jim murmurs, “Loosen up, pet.”

Spock tries to obey. He attempts to keep his motions ‘free,’ but he’s tense, nonetheless, because it feels so _lewd_. They have tools for this. He adds the outline of nacelles to the oval, washed in a gradient of grey. Jim’s arms snake around him, tighten across his bare chest, so much _skin-on-skin_ with the flicker of their connection through that contact. Spock doesn’t need to splay his fingers over Jim’s meld points to _feel Jim inside him._ Jim opens his mouth around the back of Spock’s ear, laves his tongue over it and purrs, husky and _hungry_ , “ _Good boy._ ”

What was going to be a rendition of the Enterprise becomes a nebulous cloud of grey and blue. Jim overloads his mind too much for him to colour in the lines. Each time Jim licks at him, it’s a struggle for Spock not to tremble, and the tremours run all the way to his fingertips. He tried to keep the paint to just the index and middle finger of his right hand, but he stumbles and slicks eight out of ten. 

Finally, Jim abandons the pretense. He pushes Spock down, and Spock lets himself fall, his chest hitting the canvas and Jim’s weight heavy atop him. A quick rustle of fabric, and Jim pushes down at the back of Spock’s standard-issue pants, fortunately just below the wet canvas. Jim’s hand slides down his cheeks, squeezing once along the way, then digs into the middle, until Jim’s finger is pushing at his brim. 

Spock’s _ready_. He shouldn’t be—he should be immovable, invulnerable, but Jim’s _so beautiful_ like this: the perfect work of art. When he compliments Spock, when he _touches_ Spock, when he _commands_ Spock, Spock answers. His body yearns for more, yearns to make their mental bond a physical one, and his Vulcan anatomy responds in kind. He’s wet and open, and he sucks in Jim’s finger with a disgusting squelching sound that makes Spock wince. His cheek is against the canvas, hair just short of the shallow bowls of paint. He can feel it cool and thick against his stomach and chest. He tries to be still as Jim’s finger slides evenly inside him, but it’s difficult. 

“I knew you’d be like this,” Jim chuckles, dark. He scrapes his teeth along the back of Spock’s neck and purrs, “Knew you’d love being filthy for me, and be such a pretty picture...” He rolls his hips down into Spock’s, his thick cock dragging along Spock’s rear, already freed. It’s rock-hard, but Spock already knew that. He can _feel_ Jim’s arousal burning wild inside his mind. Spock has no words. 

Jim doesn’t need them. He curls his finger inside Spock, stroking Spock’s walls and trying to inspire a reaction that Spock tries to stifle. Then Jim is slipping in another digit and scissoring him wide, even though Spock’s already stretched and quivering, desperate for _more_ —he does get hard, pleasing Jim, and maybe even in defying the heritage he normally works so hard to cultivate, and especially the bristling heat of _his captain atop him_.

When Jim pulls out his fingers, the tip of his cock is right behind, one hand now pushing Spock’s pants down even more and the other lining them up. Spock holds his breath, waits, and is rewarded with the slow, languid slide of Jim’s long dick into his body. Jim _moans_. Spock’s heartbeat quickens, his hands clenching at his sides—sometimes he tries to use Vulcan disciplines to keep from palling apart—and he inevitably breaks, murmuring, _“Captain_ ,” beneath his breath. Jim just goes on, burying to the hilt, while Spock’s moist channel tries to suck it deeper. 

At the base, Jim falters, pauses a second to take it in, and Spock shares that moment. It’s strange, in a way, when Jim’s just lying there, not touching or stimulating anything, and Spock’s simply sheathing him, _full_ of _Jim_. But then Jim moves, lifting up on hands and knees to drag out, until he’s far enough to slam back inside. 

It jostles Spock against the canvas. The bowls are wide and rattle but probably don’t overturn, or at least, he doesn’t think so—he can’t see them, but thinks he would feel the paint dripping along his ear and hair if they did. The next thrust does the same thing, and the one after that, but a few in, Jim finds Spock’s prostate, and Spock cries out without meaning to. Jim kisses his cheek for a reward, rams into the same spot again, and murmurs, “You feel _so good_.”

Spock could say the same. But Jim says it more and starts to scatter him in kisses. Half turn into bites, others just firm and hard, teeth pressed against him and a searching tongue tracing this way and that, tugging at his ear, his throat, his shoulders. Jim wraps on arm around Spock’s middle, the other supporting him. Into the jut of Spock’s neck, he moans, “I love you _so much_.” Their bond spikes with it. Spock can _feel_ it, the tidal wave of adoration, of lust and admiration and deep, immovable understanding. Jim fills him, brutally making love and inhabiting his whole body, seeping into his mind, and Spock’s glad he isn’t still painting, because it might betray him, all the _emotion_ spilling over.

He contents himself, instead, to simply take it all. He relinquishes to the smear of colour across his chest, worsened with every thrust of Jim’s cock. He says nothing back to suit their game, but Jim knows it all. Jim knows him the way no one else ever has. Jim rides him hard, until Spock’s dizzy from pleasure, his own hips cantering against the floor of Jim’s quarters, wanting friction, but Jim gets it first—Jim comes with a feral cry, his body slamming down to fill Spock up with seed. 

Spock has to hold himself still and let Jim finish. A part of him wants to throw Jim off of him, roll them around and slam into Jim’s ripe body, but Spock suppresses that with a shiver and forcefully waits it out. He knows Jim won’t forget him. 

Jim takes a minute, then lifts up, dragging Spock up. Spock’s put on all fours, with Jim still wrapped around him. Jim encircles his cock and pumps it, enough that Spock doesn’t have to move, can struggle with his dignity to be still and take what he’s given, though his face still tilts back when Jim nuzzles into him. Jim knows just what he likes and plays him to completion. 

Spock spends himself on the canvas. Jim milks him out over it, adding his release to the distorted tangle of colours. Spock doesn’t pay it any mind until Jim chuckles around panting, “I should put that on my wall.”

Breathing harder than a Vulcan should, Spock deliberately doesn’t look at Jim. His cheeks are too hot, probably green. He has to trust Jim’s joking and asks instead, “Am I forgiven?”

Lovingly, Jim answers, “Yes.” He kisses Spock’s cheek, and Spock, hazy in that afterglow, lifts his hand to Jim’s face without thinking. It spreads grey and blue there. Spock’s fingers brush along Jim’s meld points, but he doesn’t have to thrust inside. They already share a mind, a heart. Jim pecks Spock again, heedless of the mess.

But then he’s climbing up, and he takes Spock by the wrists to help him follow. Spock tries to hold his hands away from Jim’s uniform, but when he glances down, he finds they’ve already muddied the carpet in several places. Smirking like that was the plan all along, Jim says, “I’ll get the cleaner.” Spock nods and lets him go. 

Spock’s left standing there, wondering if he should shower or wear the drying art of Jim’s love for a little while.


End file.
